


Sometimes Rain That's Needed Falls

by pearl_o



Series: A Smile Rising [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Language Kink, M/M, Nightmares, Party, Photographs, Smoking, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles doesn't know what he's looking for, but he finds it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Rain That's Needed Falls

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as some tumblr fic exercises, based on various pictures of James McAvoy, and grew from there. (All inspirational pictures are linked [here](http://pearl-o.livejournal.com/1238333.html?thread=16550973#t16550973).)

"You just _met_ this guy," Raven says, leaning back against the kitchen counter. She's not only scowling, but also has her arms crossed against her chest: double disapproval.

"Long enough," Charles says, looking away from her to concentrate on the sandwich he's putting together, peanut butter and marshmallow fluff on white bread.

"You don't know anything about him! I bet you don't even know his middle name."

"It's Magnus, actually."

Raven snorts, disbelieving, but that is actually the truth. The second night Charles stayed over, Erik had to leave for work early the next morning, and he had kissed Charles and left him there in the bed, telling him to make himself at home. When Charles woke up a couple hours later, he had taken a shower in Erik's bathroom, using his shampoo, then made himself coffee in Erik's fancy espresso machine, sprawled out on the couch and watched an episode of some stupid TV show in his living room, and finally sat down and rifled through the desk in his bedroom, looking at all the papers that were saved there. He knows Erik's full name, birth date, social security number, all those minor facts that Raven is so concerned about and don't really matter.

"I don't understand what your problem is," Charles says. He sets down the dirty knives and screws the tops back onto the jars. "I met him through Moira - I know he's not a serial killer."

"First of all, your standards in moving in with a guy should be significantly higher than 'not a serial killer,'" Raven says, rolling her eyes, "and secondly, Moira said he was an asshole."

"She's been wrong before," Charles says, and he takes a bite of his sandwich, so he doesn't have to talk about it anymore. There isn't a way to put any of it into words, not ones that Raven would understand.

* * *

The first time Charles had sex with Erik Lehnsherr was a little less than an hour after he met him. Charles had already been a little buzzed by the time Erik had arrived at Moira's party, but Charles was willing to bet it would have happened the same way nonetheless. He can't imagine a situation where he wouldn't have been drawn to Erik, the way he held himself so still and silent, while his face still showed so much going on underneath, the kind of depth in his eyes that made Charles feel a little dizzy.

And he was hot. There was that, too.

So it was probably inevitable that Charles ended up taking Erik by the hand, and dragging him away to some place private. The second story bathroom was empty, everyone else either downstairs or outside, and he closed the door behind them and pushed Erik up against the sink counter and went down to his knees right there.

* * *

It's been three months since he graduated and Charles still hasn't found a job. He hasn't been looking as hard as he should be, honestly. He has enough in savings to live off for a while. What he needs to do is figure out what he wants, but it's easier said than done. He sends out resumes and applications, but he's not surprised by the lukewarm responses. Somehow he can't help but think his own lack of excitement towards the jobs comes through in all his cover letters.

All in good time, Charles supposes. After sixteen years of schooling, of being the brilliant prodigy, the one everyone expected so much of, of working so hard, he has a summer vacation. For now, he finds himself surprisingly content to float along.

* * *

The record comes to an end, fading to hisses and scratches. He should get up from the floor and change it, put on something new, but he doesn't - just stretches out his legs, takes another drag of his cigarette.

"Nasty habit," Erik says, breaking his haze, and Charles opens his eyes and turns his head to the side to see him standing in the doorway. Erik is still wearing his suit, his overcoat, holding his briefcase at his side. He looks ... delicious. Charles feels a little underdressed, lying across the floor on his old ratty sweater and sweatpants. He likes the contrast, though, somehow; it takes him feel like a kept man. A little kinky.

"You caught me," Charles says. It's odd to think Erik hasn't seen him smoke before. He doesn't do it all the time, but often enough. It reminds him, again, that they really haven't known each other all that long, however it might feel. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," Erik says. There's a hint of humor in his voice, but his expression is nothing but serious. Charles stretches again, enjoying the way Erik's gaze follows the movement of his body.

"I'm going to go make dinner," Erik says, but he doesn't move at all.

Charles smiles, pushes himself up on his elbows and reaches out for the ashtray by his side to stub out his cigarette.

He lays back down and says, "I think it can wait a while, don't you?" He meets Erik's eyes and waits.

Erik's voice is a deep rumble out of his chest. "Perhaps."

"Come here," Charles says, resting his hand on his stomach, and he watches, satisfied, as Erik sets down his case and steps forward into the room, falling to his knees at Charles's side.

* * *

It's not the sort of place he would ever have expected Erik to pick out - though he's not sure what he _would_ have expected, really. Some place sleek and modern, probably, luxurious but understated. Certainly not a frou-frou B &B, with needlepoint pillows on the settee and doilies on all the furniture.

He dumps his overnight bag in the wardrobe, not bothering to unpack, and circles the room, picking up the occasional knickknack, running his hand over the dark wood paneling of the walls. He reaches the bed again and sits down on the edge of the mattress, bouncing up and down on it a couple of times. It's very firm, almost hard, even, much firmer than Charles likes it himself, the way he's already discovered Erik prefers.

Charles stands up again, leaning against the bedpost, hands in his pockets, trying not to fidget. It's a relief when the bathroom door finally - _finally_ \- opens, and Erik enters the room again.

The steam follows Erik out. He's wearing a bathrobe, huge and fluffy and white. He's shaved off his five o'clock shadow. His hair is mussed in a way that makes it obvious he's just given it a brief towel-dry and nothing more. Charles wants to bury his hands in it.

"That's better," Erik says. "You sure you don't want to shower? Get off some of the grime from those hours on the road?"

"I'm fine," Charles says. He sits down on the foot of the bed and watches Erik dress, piece by piece, quickly and efficiently. Charles would have liked a show, but he figures that can wait for later, when he gets Erik out of the chinos and polo again.

"This isn't what I expected when you said we were going away for the weekend," Charles says lightly. "Are we going to explore the foliage tomorrow?"

Erik looks at him seriously. "Do you want to? I can certainly arrange it."

Charles shakes his head, smiling. "Not at all. I'm sure we can find better things to do."

* * *

Charles is never surprised when he wakes up alone in the bed. Erik doesn't sleep, really. He has chronic insomnia - some nights, Charles knows, he lies awake the entire night through. On the night he does fall asleep more easily, he rarely goes more than five hours or so before rising. And then there are the nightmares, too - but they're rare, Erik insists, and truthfully Charles has only witnessed them once in the time they've been together.

Charles wakes up in the middle of the massive hotel bed, surrounded by more pillows than should be possible, covered by piles of blankets. It's a surprisingly amount of work to push his way out, and reach the end of the bed.

"Charles? Are you up?" Erik appears at the edge of the balcony and Charles catches his breath for just a moment at the way the light behind him frames his form. He's dressed casually, a loose t-shirt and blue jeans, and there's a sense of relaxation about him that Charles hasn't seen before very often.

"Yeah," Charles says, wiping the sand from his eyes. "I'm up."

Erik smiles at him fondly. "I was starting to wonder. They've finished serving breakfast, but I brought you up some scones and some different kinds of tea - I wasn't sure which you would prefer."

"Wonderful." He rises to his feet, stretches out the kinks in his back. "Why don't you make me a cup while I shower, hm?"

He rinses off quickly; the water pressure is wonderful, but the temperature not nearly as steaming hot as he prefers. He runs a comb through his hair, pulls on a pair of jeans, and decides, after a moment, to leave his shirt off.

Erik is sitting at the small table, reading the paper. He's set a place for Charles, and Charles settles into the seat eagerly. The scones are tender and delicate, the fruit ripe and sweet, the tea strong and aromatic. He eats quickly.

When he's done, he wipes his mouth with his napkin and then rests his hand on his fist, gazing at Erik.

Erik can't see him through the paper, but he knows he's being watched nonetheless. "What?"

"Nothing," Charles says. After another moment, he slips out the chair and around the table, and sits down at Erik's feet. He leans back against his leg. Erik's thigh is strong and muscled and perfectly comfortable under his skull, and he likes the sound of the breath Erik sucks in. There's a rustling noise as Erik sets down the paper on the table, and then Erik's warm hand is in Charles's hair, petting him and scratching his scalp. It feels so good Charles almost wants to purr. He closes his eyes and enjoys the sensations.

* * *

The anniversary of Erik's parents' deaths is the first week of November. Charles finds out almost accidentally, a terse one sentence explanation of why he pushes Charles away that morning, of why he doesn't feel like talking.

Charles doesn't know much about what happened, just what he gathered from the night Erik's nightmares woke him up. It was when Erik was young, twelve or thirteen; they were out as a family when they were attacked; both of his parents died; so did the murderer; Erik survived. It was self-defense.

That's all. He won't push.

* * *

Most mornings he wakes up around the time Erik starts getting ready for work, right around the time Erik puts down the book he's reading and starts picking out his clothes from the closet. Charles goes downstairs and starts the coffee, first thing, puts out the cereal and milk. By the time he comes back upstairs, Erik's usually done with his shower. Charles lets himself into their bathroom and sits on the lidded toilet and watches Erik go through the rest of his morning rituals. Sometimes he stands up, places himself behind Erik, stretching to rest his chin on Erik's shoulder, so he can see both of them staring back at him in the mirror. Sometimes he'll take the razor out of Erik's hand himself, or steal a minty toothpaste-flavored kiss.

When Erik leaves for the day, Charles sits on the back stoop and drinks his tea, maybe smokes a single cigarette, and thinks about what his day is going to be.

* * *

Erik doesn't drink - he doesn't even take any drugs harder than aspirin - but he doesn't mind Charles drinking. He seems to like it, in fact. He doesn't say so in so many words, but Charles can tell. Erik likes to buy Charles champagne or mixed drinks and watch him getting steadily more and more intoxicated. Likes the way it makes Charles chatty, makes him loose-limbed and touch-starved, makes him laugh too easily and too enthusiastically.

Charles is always bossy in bed, but it's even worse when he's been drinking, and Erik likes that too. Erik's bigger, stronger, has a good decade on Charles, but he listens perfectly, gives Charles exactly what he wants and needs.

There's so many things about Charles that Erik likes that Charles can't even count them. He doesn't understand why, but he appreciates it.

* * *

"Say something to me in German," Charles says one night, after they finish having sex.

He props himself up on his elbows, so he can see Erik better.

Erik is on his back beside him, still catching his breath. "Hm? Why?"

Charles traces his finger through the sweat on Erik's chest. "It's your mother tongue," he says thoughtfully. "I'd like to hear it."

Erik blows out a long breath, as if he's thinking carefully. Charles waits, and after a moment, Erik says something. His voices sounds lower, somehow, shaping around all the stark, rough consonants. It's even hotter than Charles thought it would be, and he shivers a little.

"What does it mean?"

Erik laughs at that, and Charles scowls. "If I wanted you to understand it," Erik says, "I would have said it in English."

Charles bites his shoulder in retaliation, but Erik just strokes his hair when he does it. If that's how he's going to be, Charles will have to make up his own translation.

* * *

Erik's house is filled with books, in four different languages, only two of which Charles can read (his French, while somewhat rusty orally, is more than adequately for most reading purposes). He spends more and more time reading, swallowing up book after book, day after day, until he's almost made his way through Erik's collection. Erik is lacking in science books, anyway, and Charles has been increasingly hungering for that. He starts visiting the library every other day.

He misses school, he realizes with surprise. He misses academia. He thinks about the future there and waits for the sense of ennui or boredom that comes when he think about other possible jobs, but it never does.

"I'm going to apply to grad school," he tells Erik over dinner, and Erik doesn't look surprised at all.

* * *

He doesn't remember a thing about Moira's New Year's party, afterwards; the night is a total blank. When he asks Erik about it, Erik won't say anything, even when Charles curses at him, just shakes his head and smiles.

Moira emails him the pictures a few days later, though, and there he is, there they are. There are some nice ones of him dancing with Raven, hugging her and spinning her around. One of him and Moira deep in discussion, each of them gesturing vehemently with one hand, champagne flutes in the other. There's an entire series of him in Erik's lap, nuzzling against his neck while Erik holds him steady: his tie is loose around his neck, he's lost his jacket, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone, but Erik still looks immaculate.

There's one of Erik, sitting on the couch, leaning forward with his intertwined hands hanging loose between his legs. There's an expression on Erik's face that Charles couldn't describe in a thousand years. He would know, even without Moira's caption, that Erik was watching _him_ when it was taken.

That one is Charles's favorite. After he closes the email, he goes to search out Erik. He finds him in the living room couch, watching a soccer match on TV.

Erik looks up, curious, when Charles enters the room. Charles stops in front of him, and leans over to kiss him, nipping softly at his upper lip. He stands up straight again and says, "Come to bed with me."

He turns around and leaves the room, not looking back. He knows Erik is following him.


End file.
